This Little Light of Mine

Yesterday, October 15, was Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day. My Facebook feed was filled with friends and family lighting candles for the babies they no longer get to hold and sharing their stories. It warmed my heart to see that so many are now willing to talk about this and that as a community, we are no longer ashamed.

Except me. I stood in my kitchen, looking at my candle, and I couldn't light it.

I couldn't bring myself to bring flame to the wick and remember the two babies I carried that never made it. Even writing this now, I'm feeling a little panicky.

I'm trying to figure out why. I will gladly share the details of my stories. Everything, from when I found out I was pregnant to the aftermath of losing the child. I've shared my one experience many times and you can read it here. I thought it was common knowledge until I was speaking with my mother one day and she was shocked to find out that I'd had two miscarriages.

I slowly began to realize that I don't really talk about it. Not that I want to. Not that I need to. But I simply don't.

It's the same reason I was staring at that candle last night, unable to light it. If I lit the candle and stood alone there in the dark with just a single flame, I'd be right back where I was when it happened. Alone. In the dark. 

I can tell you all the details and facts of what happened when I lost my babies. But I'll never tell you of the emotional pain that still lingers. I've made my peace with what happened. I know it wasn't meant to be. I have three beautiful and healthy babies now and if the others had survived, I wouldn't have that. I know this. I know it wasn't my fault. I know it couldn't have been prevented. I know that it happens, much more often than we care to realize.

I knew all the facts and they gave me comfort. What I didn't know was that it would tear me apart from the inside out. I didn't know that after my body healed, my mind and soul would still be scarred. What I didn't know was that they always would be.

In true strong woman fashion, I tried to ignore this. I worked straight through my first miscarriage, not wanting to share that detail with any of my coworkers. I tried to go back to work the next day after my second miscarriage, but my body wouldn't let me. My mind needed something to focus on but it wasn't physically possible.

I was sent home with words of sympathy and hugs and looks of pity that were extremely well intended, but that I hated just the same. I didn't need pity or sympathy. This shit happens. Just let me move on.

And I won't tell you how after I went home to rest my physical condition, my mental condition started to deteriorate. I won't tell you how I locked the bedroom door, turned off my phone and laid in the dark for a week and cried.

I won't tell you because the pity on your face won't change it. The hugs won't make me feel better. It's something that I had to endure even though I fought it every second. It's something I have to live with, always burning the back of my brain.

So no. I can't light my candle yet. One day, hopefully, just not today. The last thing I want is to be left alone in the dark with my thoughts again.

Ask me if I've lost babies, and I'll boldly tell you about them. I'll share the details of when and how and what it was like. But I won't tell you all of it.

I'm sharing this because I know there are other people out there who couldn't light their candle, either. I'm speaking, not as someone who has been through it and made it, but as someone who is going through it still.

And while I feel like I suffered through it alone and that I always will, I know that I have an incredibly strong support system in my family and friends. They know me and how I deal with things and they always seem to offer the right kind of comfort, even when I think I don't need it. That has been what has gotten me through, knowing that other people have felt what I have, even if it's something that can't be described in words.

One day, I'll be able to light my candle. I'll be able to sit in the dark and not let the bad thoughts win. I'll be able to cry and walk away feeling lighter instead of heavier. Maybe tonight. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next year. Maybe someday.

One day, their little lights will shine.